One Day: A Narrative Fiction

“Hello,” a young woman asked desperately. “Is this Oz Matthews?” “Yes, it is,” a man remarked. “How may I help you?” The woman stated deliberately, “I need to report a crime.” “What is your name?” Oz Matthews asked vigorously. “Mrs. Smith,” the woman murmured. “There was a shooting at the concert in Central Park. Over thirty people are dead and a multitude are wounded.” “I’ll survey it. Thanks for calling,” Oz Matthews responded conclusively. He quickly hung up the phone. “Another mystery to solve,” Oz noted quietly to himself. “Let’s expose this malicious murderer.” Five minutes later, Oz arrived at Central Park. Rubble was everywhere, dead and injured bodies strewn all over the pavement. The people still alert were running about, causing mayhem. Oz exclaimed in an irritated
He searched everywhere in the house. Under the bed, in between the couch cushions, and behind the television. He conducted an unabridged study of the house himself, but the phone was nowhere to be seen.
Oz arrived at the Police Station promptly at eight a.m. All three suspects were shaking, their faces battered with anxiety. Oz called Mr. Lopez back to his office first.
Rapidly Oz took him back, and once they were in private Oz asked him, “I found your fingerprints on the gun in Central park. Why were your fingerprints on the gun?”
“I was just loading the bullets to ensure whoever is backstage during the concert has the gun ready when they may need to use it, in case of intruders. I was reading backstage, but I was checking to verify that the gun stayed put,” Mr. Lopez replied. “But the time I checked an hour after the concert had started, the gun had vanished. A few minutes later I heard the murderer shoot the gun and people produced boisterous noises.” Mr. Lopez seemed uncommonly calm.
Oz said, “My phone was purloined last night. Do you know anything about this?”
“No, I don’t know anything about this,” Mr. Lopez